First came the hunter, born in her mother's embrace, blessed by her father's blood. Her crest pure, a blended medley of weaver and wyrm. And soley hers.
Then came the beast. They tried to tame her, make her a princess. Instead she lashed out, pushing against them with claws too sharp. She would never grow old.
Then came the reaper, when there was nothing but death. The kingdom dying around her because her father failed, she had to kill. Kill or be killed...better her face it than the others.
Then the wanderer. When silence finally fell, and there was nothing but a corpse, the wanderer met it with stoic quiet. What choice did she have?
Then the architect. The ticking...the ticking and singing, the grinding of gears and clicking of plates, they embedded themself in them. They warped them, made them more automation than bug. And least they don't have to worry about the souls trapped in bronze...as they are the same.
The witch was born crying. Crying and screaming, ripped from its place with the whirr of blades and needles. It screams for comfort, screams for home, screams for warmth. A need it does not know...a need it will never truly sate.
The shaman regrets what he had wrought. To bring another nest to ruin...how could he? How could he do this...? He should have never trusted them, but he did. And now......now he doesn't know what to do.
